


excellent vintage

by inberin



Series: and whatever you do, don't fall in love [1]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Haikyuu!!
Genre: Crossover, M/M, fallen london AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6999535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inberin/pseuds/inberin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>two nobodies walk into a soirée. there is no punchline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	excellent vintage

**Author's Note:**

> did u kno: im really bad at writing summaries??? this is set before the events of [a most delicious murder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6486133), which you should totally check out if u happen to like the premise of this fic or would like to know more about fallen london!!
> 
> this is not a love story
> 
> enjoy!!

When it’d first started to become obvious that rubbing shoulders (and occasionally other, less conspicuous body parts) with lords and ladies was more than just imperative in Karasuno’s climb to the top, Sugawara Koushi had taken it upon himself to begin their first dabblings into the deceptively sparkling waters of high Society.

It wasn’t that Asahi or Daichi weren’t capable of the affected behaviours of the usual Society types—okay, fine, maybe they were a little incapable, but they both could clean up very nicely if they so wished, and now that they were a good few years into their dabbling they had finally managed to grasp the finer nuances of using fish forks—but that they had already begun their own ventures into their own chosen fields of excellence, and Koushi knew exactly how much those early months took their toll. He realises this by the second week of their descent into London as they sat in their dingy rooms barely big enough to fit one resident, let along three boys growing into men.

It took him a month. Two, if you wanted to count the time he’d spent trying to wrangle himself invitations to soirées with the sweetest lilt of his voice and in the finest clothes he could afford with that first month’s work. And now, the Sanguine Keysmith, having realised he’s completely misplaced his letter-opener, rips open an envelope so exquisite that he’d probably have it framed, years ago. Rips it open with his bare hands. He shakes his head at himself. Is this the man he’s become? Someone with no respect for the extravagance and sanctity of invitations to exclusive parties? _Honestly._

Koushi pulls the expensive paper out of its equally expensive prison, and tears the envelope to shreds. Then he glances about guiltily. Shimizu isn’t in. Good. No witnesses.

The invitation is to one of His Amused Lordship’s grander parties, the ones so grand and packed so full of anyone of His Lordship’s acquaintance that it probably wouldn’t have been in celebration of anything at all important, really. Koushi’s terribly busy now, both with being a Keysmith of some repute along with studying to potentially become a Chandler of some repute. But any soirée of His Lordship’s is a soirée worth going to, either by virtue of meeting by chance someone quite exceptional, or meeting a glass of wine equally exceptional. And he could use the break.

He sighs, stands, and slips on his coat of midnight before he steps out of the office.

 

 

Years, before. There is a flute of the ‘82 in his hand, a flattering frock over his shoulders, and a fashionable smile on his face. He weaves through the sparse crowd the way one might run a hand through a field of flowers, ever gentle, allowing the blooms to lean back into their original clusters, undisturbed but undeniably touched. Koushi’s not good, yet. In time, he will be.

And it’s not an excellent party, either. Someone had already decided to make off with one of the host’s paintings, someone else had snaffled a case of the more expensive wines, and at least two other someones were wearing mushroom bonnets. _Honestly._ Everyone knew the novelty of those things were only temporary. It’s like rule number three of living large and loud in this stolen city. Rule number two is _smile, always smile_ , while rule number one is—

“Excellent vintage,” says a voice beside him. It is not significant or musical, nor is it a delicious baritone or sweetly lilting like Koushi’s own. It is just a voice. And though it is simply a voice, like any other respectable person at a party, when Koushi hears a voice, he turns with a reply ready on his tongue.

“It’s enjoyable, I have to agree.” Swirling the liquid about its glass as appraisingly as he can, he observes the speaker with what he hopes is the right amount of cordial interest and disaffected disinterest one reserves for someone of possibly equal, but unfamiliar standing. “Though it is a pity that there doesn’t seem to be much more of it left to enjoy before the night ends.”

The speaker appears to be a man with a slight stature and very neat hair. They are about the same height, but Koushi is sure he’d have looked right past him if he hadn’t spoken. “Well, London _is_ the Bazaar’s, now. There is no end in sight,” he says, smiling a smile as polite as his hair, and his coat, and his bowler hat. “If our nights are forever young, then the wine should flow ever aplenty.”

Koushi raises his brows delicately. “Too bad our host isn’t exactly rich enough to ensure a constant flow of it,” he remarks, part amused and part dumbfounded at this stranger’s quiet audacity. “Might I inquire about the nature of your acquaintance with Mrs. Baer?”

Lowering his gaze—whether bashfully, or respectfully, or shiftily, Koushi absolutely can’t tell—the young man’s smile does not waver, and he says, “I am nothing more than a friend. We sometimes play bridge together.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of bridge.” Koushi wouldn’t have pegged him as a fan of anything. Except maybe good wine.

“And I wouldn’t have pegged you as someone Mrs. Baer thought important enough to invite to her daughter’s wedding party, Mr. Sugawara,” the young man says, voice as light and mild as if they’d been chatting about nothing more important than the non-existent weather. Koushi’s fingers tighten around his wine flute. “But I’d say we are all not how we appear,” the young man finishes.

“How very perceptive,” remarks Koushi, “and also rather poetic. Might you write?”

“I might,” replies the young man, tilting his head in polite affirmation. “I understand that it is somewhat relevant to your field of expertise.”

“It is,” agrees Koushi.

“Respectable,” comments the young man. His smile hasn’t moved or altered itself in any way, and suddenly Koushi’s struck with the urge to _mess it up_ , to ruin this man’s composure in any way he can. He wonders what this man would do if Koushi struck him across the face right now, in the middle of a party. If Koushi threw the remnants of the cheap wine onto that well-pressed shirt. If Koushi grabbed him right now, stuck a hand in that terribly _polite_ hair, and slanted his mouth over h—

“Perhaps you should write, then,” Koushi says, wiping his mind blank. A grey slate. “To me. You obviously know who I am, which is rather flattering.”

The almost imperceptible lift of an eyebrow. “Shall I?”

Koushi shrugs. “I have no means to write to you.”

“Then perhaps I shall,” the young man decides. Koushi imagines that smile getting just a little bit wider. Maybe it does. “I may wax a lot of nonsense about how the night lasts forever, but it still stands that we are running out of time. I must take my leave. It has been a pleasure, Mr. Sugawara.” He makes to turn, but then pauses. “The wine here may not flow aplenty,” he says, “but as long as there is night, there will be more parties.” He tips his hat. “Good night.”

Turning on his heel, the young man disappears into a crowd, which absorbs his unremarkable face like a spoon of honey dissolving on the tongue. Koushi is left with the impression of a flat smile, and a glass of wine that tastes impossibly shallow in comparison to the aforementioned smile.

After carefully inserting himself into a conversation between a very tipsy Mrs. Baer and her equally drunk cronies, Koushi accomplishes two things: the first of which was reassuring her that he was, in fact, her daughter’s friend’s cousin’s nephew, and therefore had all reason to be there, and the second was to find out that, among all other means of fashionable distractions, Mrs. Baer absolutely detested playing bridge.

When he returns to his office the next day, Shimizu is already there, standing next to a small crate of wine bottles. She hands him a scrap of paper, meticulously torn into a nigh-perfect rectangle. It is too big to be a note, but too small to be a proper letter. On it is written, in a concise and _terribly_ neat hand:

_for the Sanguine Keysmith,_

_from the Elusive Curator._

_This is a small gift off of Mrs. Baer’s hospitality, though a little too perishable to be something to remember me by. I understand that, as a Keysmith, you might be inclined to remember and note down a great deal of secrets, with a good number of those secrets being names. Nevertheless, despite the short and tentative nature of our acquaintance, I feel inclined, either moved by fate or some personal agenda, to tell you mine: Ennoshita Chikara._

_Now you may write to me._

_Cheers,_

_The Elusive Curator_

Koushi presses the back of his hand to his mouth, and he laughs.

 

 

And write he does. His first missive is something short and questioning, like a hesitant reach of a finger towards a yet-unknown creature. Hearteningly, the creature who goes by the name of Ennoshita is a mix of friendly, eloquent, and—despite that ever-neat handwriting—almost brazenly forward in his letters. More forward than Koushi himself. Observe here a letter a week into their dalliance:

_Dear Mr. Keysmith,_

_It is with great regret that I express my ignorance towards one of your comrades’ names, despite you so gallantly describing both their persons to me with words on paper. I do not think we have the luck of having any of our frequented circles intersect. However, I am delighted to tell you that I have, indeed, heard of the name S_____ D_____ within a certain one of the aforementioned circles. It is not a frequently-spoken name, but believe me when I say that the room is usually in agreement of his greater deeds whenever it is mentioned. I beseech you to pass on my words in the hope that it pleases your friend to hear the extent of his achievements. His path is one that leaves behind a quiet trail; quiet but sure._

_In regards to the other matter you speak about in your previous letter, yes, it would be enriching for me to perhaps spend more time in your company. You possess experience and know-how undeniably far beyond mine, and it would be nothing short of delightful for me to learn your ways, however little at a time._

_Might I suggest a viewing of the newest show at Mahogany Hall? I may have two tickets at the ready for a visit within the week, if you are so willing._

_Awaiting your reply,_

_your humble Curator_

The audacity of it. Koushi knows his theatre, it being a constant form of entertainment for both the cultured and uncultured. Two Mahogany Hall tickets with this little notice? Ennoshita would have to be either very eager, or _very_ influential. Either possibility sends something pleasant fluttering in Koushi’s chest.

He picks up a pen. Then he writes a letter. And then he gets up, and looks through their shared, slowly-growing closet for the precise outfit one needs for a trip to the theatre.

 

 

Daichi looks up from his polishing as Koushi strides past. “Whose party is it this time?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as Koushi sweeps an arm out to show off his grey vest and matching lace with unabashed pride.

“Not a party,” Koushi sings, grinning, “a person.”

The other eyebrow goes up. “That so? Countless admirers and you’ve finally chosen one?”

Koushi lets out an indignant breath. “It was a few kids, one time, and you guys never me live it down.”

“At the rate you’re rising through your ranks,” pipes up Asahi from his corner, carefully folding up a new coat, “you’ll be followed around by more admirers than you can handle soon enough. Remember us when you strike it big, okay?”

“Ha ha, very funny. You know I’m doing it for the club.”

“I know, I know. But this isn’t for the club, right?”

“Not,” says Koushi, “exactly. Maybe. Depending.”

“Well, in any case, go have fun,” Daichi says, tapping the clean, shiny gun barrel on edge of the table. It makes a pleasant little tinkling sound. “And don’t come home too late.”

“Yes, _mom_ ,” Koushi retorts. It loses a bit of its bite, considering he’s hopping around haphazard as he wrestles on his boots. Asahi and Daichi both watch as he bounces around their tiny rooms, and offer no help whatsoever. Koushi loves his best friends.

“What that means is that I like my beauty sleep, thank you very much,” adds Daichi, pointedly.

“Yeah, yeah,” responds Koushi with an airy wave of his hand, and doesn’t mention that they’ve barely had any sleep at all ever, chasing their dreams down in the Neath. “I’ll take care of myself.”

(“How was your d—” had been all the words out of Koushi’s mouth as Asahi had opened the door, dumped his fraying and rumpled coat onto the grubby floor, and fallen right into bed without bothering to shut said door. “O—kay,” he’d said as he went to shut the cold draft out, rather defeatedly, and Daichi had met his gaze with a sympathetic smile and eyes that looked like they were about to slip shut any moment even as his pen had continued scratching its away on his notebook. On Koushi’s arm was a hastily-tied bandage, a reminder of his failure at the Arch that afternoon. Were afternoons really afternoons if there was no heat beating down, only the cruel fists of those who’d mistaken him for a thief of the pockets rather than a thief of the mind?

Once, he’d been told he was a _sunflower_. Imagine that. Always turning his face towards the sun, up, up, up, into the light. The Bazaar was as far from the Sun as you could get—but he wasn’t going to shrivel and die in this darkness. His ambition wouldn’t let him. Asahi and Daichi wouldn’t let him.)

“You’d better,” warns Daichi, just before Koushi shuts the door.

 

Mahogany Hall is one of London’s more reputable theatres, with rather more well-dressed patrons. The Antimacassar does well enough for itself, but it sports crowds of simple work dresses and mangy suits. Doing a lot better for itself, Mahogany Hall is significantly more resplendent, and Koushi sits by Ennoshita in his grey, and waits for the show to start.

“I’m going to be frank,” says Koushi. “Why would you just have two Mahogany Hall tickets just kicking around for collection, and why me?”

Ennoshita’s eyes are bright with amusement, though his face remains rather impassive. “I shall be frank with you, as well. I’ve already been meaning to visit—I am rather fond of theatre—but I had purchased an extra ticket quite unnecessarily. And then along you came,” he says, and now there’s the smallest of smiles on his face, “someone whose company I cannot help but enjoy, and I thought to myself, ‘ah, this must be what fate feels like’.”

“You are awfully well-spoken,” points out Koushi.

“Thank you,” says Ennoshita as the lights begin being turned out in the theatre. “I only wish for you to enjoy yourself.”

Koushi curls a hand around Ennoshita’s arm, inciting a little stiffness and surprise on Ennoshita’s part, but he is otherwise not disallowed the physical contact. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem, my dear Curator.”

 

The party is, in a word, dazzling.

It had been just a little tip-off on Ennoshita’s part. _Mr. Wines is having another of its revels_ , he’d written. _If there’s one person I know who’s able to get himself in without an invitation, it’d be you. I’ll see you there._ Koushi’s trying to look as natural as he can, clutching his glass of Morelways (real, actual Morelways! The flow of it, seemingly unending!) and navigating the huge ballroom in his best suit and best shoes and best smile. It all still feels a little unreal. If he weren’t amidst a sea of truly exceptional people, he might just pinch himself, just to make sure.

Felicity isn’t just smiling on him today. She’s grinning, laughing, raising a hand in greeting.  

"Mr. Sugawara."  
  
The voice doesn't even startle him, this time. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, suffusing him with a mist so terrified and confident and calm. "Yes, my humble Curator?"  
  
"Ah, now you’re embarrassing me on purpose." Ennoshita's smile is perhaps the tiniest bit crooked, but, Koushi notes with the beginnings of some concern, very plainly wan. "There is nothing more pleasant than exchanging pleasantries with the brightest eyes in the room, but I am afraid I have approached you for... a favour."  
  
"A favour?" Koushi feels his eyebrows pinch together. "Why? Do you need me to still that glib tongue of yours?"  
  
Ennoshita laughs, low and self-deprecating. "I can still my tongue myself, if you so wish. No, this is something only you are capable of."  
  
Koushi crosses his arms and stares at him, and finds he's worried despite himself. "If you're looking to hire me for my services, I'm afraid I'll have to charge even silver-tongued curators the full amount."  
  
"And I wouldn’t expect anything less. But no, I do not need any doors opened. Except maybe just one." He reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a card the colour of milk, offering it to Koushi apologetically. "Take a look at this, and you will understand."  
  
"This is…?" Koushi flips the card, and raises an eyebrow.  
  
Ennoshita lowers his head, the picture of regret. "Now you know why you are the only one who can accomplish this."  
  
"I understand now," Koushi says, nodding gravely. "It pains me to say this, but I'll have you know that I need to consider."  
  
"Ah." Ennoshita's face falls. This is quite possibly the most Koushi has seen him emote, ever. "I see. I will defer to your final decision."  
  
Koushi gives up. He drops all pretense of manners, and snorts with laughter like he's with his two best friends in his shared rooms, and not at a sparkling revel of Mr. Wines with a flute in his hand. "Really! So uptight!"  
  
The smile is back on Ennoshita's face, but now it's almost a grin. There’s even the smallest flash of teeth. “Dances are serious business, Mr. Sugawara. You played along.”

“You,” says Koushi, still alight with laughter, “are a delight to play with.”

Ennoshita pauses, lips slightly parted, his body poised with one foot behind him like he’s about to bolt. Then he offers the dance card to Koushi again. He speaks carefully. “Does this mean, ‘yes’?”

“Yes, yes, you silly man. Give that here.” Koushi lets Ennoshita take his glass so he can reach for a pen, but his hand freezes on the battered, scratched surface of his best pen. He hadn’t actually counted on having to write his name on any dance cards, if he eliminated any traces of hope disguised as certainty. And surely, surely it must be sheer blasphemy to produce a pen of no significant make or quality in front of the crowds of Mr. Wines?

“Mr. Sugawara?” Ennoshita prods, gentle. “Did you perhaps forget to bring your pen? It is alright, we can simply memorise which song ours would be.” Then he smiles, and it is equally as soft and unassuming. “I am afraid I do not own a pen which works reliably enough to take to a revel such as this.”

Koushi blinks, and it is after that blink that he finally sees the tiny scuffing on the shine of Ennoshita’s shoes, the near invisible patching job on his shirt, and the slightest of discolorations on his hat. And at this he brings out his old pen with no hesitation, and prints his name on Ennoshita’s empty card with the prettiest curves he can manage.

Ennoshita watches him, something fond in his face. “It is strange and satisfying to see the owner of the handwriting you converse so often with producing said handwriting before your very eyes.”

“Perhaps we should write in each other’s company,” suggests Koushi. “I have no dance card for you to demonstrate on.”

“I have rather better ideas on the things we should do in each other’s company, I reckon,” replies Ennoshita. “No offense,” he adds, voice wry.

Koushi feels a small smile playing about his lips. “There will be none taken, but only if you would be willing enough to demonstrate those ideas to me.”

The sound of violins interjects lightly into their conversation, and Ennoshita glances in their direction. “A song has begun. As I recall, you may have an obligation…?”

“Yes,” says Koushi. “You may have this dance.”

“Then let me show you,” Ennoshita replies, offering a hand to Koushi, “one of your humble Curator’s immodest ideas.”

 

In between strains of the violin strings and Koushi’s hands, Ennoshita shines, rivalling even the gaslight of the revel, and Koushi can't look away, searing Ennoshita's smile into his mind. They laugh, and the glances tossed their way aren't suspicious of their presence, but simply annoyed. Koushi catches Ennoshita by the waist to pull him closer, and he's rewarded with the faintest hints of a blush on Ennoshita's face, teased out of its impassiveness and into that grin.  
  
And it is here, with Ennoshita's fingers curled into his lapels, cheeks flushed warm, that Koushi remembers that good wine and the occasional honey isn't necessary for an excellent party. Intoxicants are found in the words of other revellers, not the hop and the grape, or the haze of a honey-dream.  
  
This is rule number one of partaking in the Bazaar's revels: whatever you do, don't fall in love.  
  
Ennoshita tugs him forward, and catches him in a chastest of kisses, barely a feather-touch of their lips. But Koushi feels his hands go rigid on Ennoshita's hips, and the next thing he knows, he's breaking away from the waltzing revellers with his Curator's hand in his, leading him out and away from the gaslights and into the night.

  


Ennoshita is forward, and hesitant. He slides a hand up Koushi’s thigh, making him jerk in delighted shock, then snatches his hand back like he's embarrassed, or been burnt. He runs his lips along Koushi’s neck, then to his bare shoulder, and draws back. A sigh escapes Koushi at the loss of warmth, and he watches with heavy eyelids as Ennoshita stares at the skin he's just kissed, like he's trying to figure out the style of the brushstrokes of veins that lie just under its surface. Koushi wonders if he sees anything, if the moonish light reveals any more of himself to Ennoshita than if they'd been under the sky, alone in a field of sunflowers.  
  
Perhaps less. The sun illuminates, warms, nurtures. Down here, there is only the dark, and the cold, and the green light of the candles. But, thinks Koushi, unbidden, is winter not when the company of others is the warmest?  
  
Seemingly intuiting Koushi’s thoughts, Ennoshita closes his eyes and hesitantly places a hand on Koushi’s chest, over his heart, and Koushi feels his breath stutter and stop in his throat. His fingers are cold on Koushi’s skin. Koushi looks at him, and at the way his face looks without that strange fatigue in his eyes—younger. Younger than Koushi, younger than he would like anyone to see.  
  
"I am not in love with Sugawara Koushi," Ennoshita says, a quiet decree, the words loud and clear in the silence of their intimacy.  
  
Koushi knows what this is. Placing a hand over Ennoshita's, he thinks about how very strange it is that Ennoshita's knuckles are warm to the touch even as calloused, ink-stained fingers slowly defrost against Koushi’s chest. He has his own eyes close, lets himself inhale and feel the way Ennoshita's hand presses against his chest as he breathes. Then he says, as honestly as he can, "and I am not in love with Ennoshita Chikara," because it is a statement that is, at its heart, true.  
  
It feels like an incantation to an eternal spell. When Ennoshita opens his eyes, the moonish light turns them grey as the false fog, but the press of his mouth is warm as the summer, and Koushi slips and lets himself think, just for the slightest second, of the sky.  
  
  
  
They meet again, of course. There is no reason for two individuals who are quite decidedly not, and have never been, romantically involved with each other not to meet, and so they do. Sometimes more parties are involved. Occasionally there is dancing, and they carefully share only one song with each other, but never find other partners. Sometimes there are plays again, and some of those times have Koushi brandishing tickets like catnip under Ennoshita's nose. Every time has Ennoshita snatching the tickets out his hands and making a half-hearted attempt to escape with them. And sometimes when Koushi manages to get close enough to pluck one ticket away, Ennoshita will catch him by the waist, and spin him away on a note played by a phantom violin.  
  
They are, most decidedly, not in love.  


 

It is after a week of this strange social dance, uncertain yet certain, intimate as letters sent by a lover across the ocean can be, that Ennoshita Chikara disappears off the face of London.

Koushi checks his home. He looks for his two friends, the K_____ H_____ and the N_____ K_____. He asks at the Museum of Mistakes, at the Magazine Once Known As The London Magazine. He attends a great many soirees in search of just one smile, until a butler looks him up and down one night and _snorts_ , and it is only then that Koushi realises that he’s now the talk of the town. _Freeloader_ , they whisper. _Penny-pincher, attending parties just for free meals. Ah, but wait_ , hisses another. _He only ever looks at the wine, and he’s always asking questions. Looking for something. A lover, spurned, forgotten_ —

Asahi finds Koushi curled into the corner usually reserved for Asahi himself, and glances worriedly around before plunking himself down next to him. “Good evening,” he tries.

“Good evening,” Koushi makes himself reply.

“Um,” says Asahi. “You’re sad.”

“Whatever could make you think that,” says Koushi, head still between his knees and arms folded over his head. He’d thrown his shimmery shawl as far away from him as he could, and it’d settled somewhere between Daichi’s bedroll and the wall, and the cold seeping through the walls raises goosebumps on his skin.

“Just a hunch.” Asahi takes off his coat, the new one he’d painstakingly saved up for just the way Koushi had saved up for his first frock, and drapes it over Koushi’s bare shoulders. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’ll cry if I want to,” Koushi says, letting himself sink into the leather, still warm from Asahi. “But I’m not going to.”

“Okay,” agrees Asahi, and flops down into Koushi’s lap. Obligingly, Koushi undoes Asahi’s hair from its bun and starts working his fingers gamely into his scalp, and Asahi sighs contentedly.

“If I’m going to stick my fingers into your hair, at least make sure it’s clean first,” Koushi complains, but his heart isn’t in it. He feels sort of perfectly fine, and sort of utterly shattered. Like a clock with the glass over its face smashed, but with its hands still ticking along, unperturbed. He should really be glad that he still runs just fine, even if he’s in need of a little tuning, but it’s hard to be grateful when you’ve just lost something, and it feels like you’ve simply put it down and forgotten where you did.

The door opens to let Daichi and a little gust of wind in, and he’s exhausted and sweating but there’s a beatific smile on his face. “What’s this?” he asks, the smile faltering a bit, though Koushi has no idea why it would. Head massages are a common occurrence in their household.

“It’s heaven, obviously,” Asahi says. “Welcome home.”

“Welcome home,” Koushi echoes. “What’s with the happy face?”

“Never mind the happy face,” says Daichi, said happy face dissolved terrifying quickly into something stern. “I’d heard someone was well on their way to winning a free one-way ticket to the Tomb-Colonies.”

“I’m far from dead, it’d definitely be a two-way trip.” Koushi waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway, I was still a long way from being shamed out of London. I’m taking a break from social events to focus properly on Keysmith work.”

Daichi stares suspiciously at him from where he sits on his bedroll. Koushi staunchly continues to work his fingers into Asahi’s scalp, ignoring Daichi as best as he can.

“You guys are scaring me,” says Asahi.

“But you’re always scared,” Koushi points out.

Asahi looks like he’s just been slandered. “I’m not! And even if I was, then that’s more reason not to scare me even further!”

Sighing, Daichi removes his coat and slumps against the wall. He looks even worse than usual, but there’s a little nimbus of satisfaction around him that’s only the slightest bit dampened by his worry. “What’s this? Oh. Suga, stop throwing your stuff around, it’s expensive,” he reprimands as he tosses Koushi’s shawl back towards him. It spreads itself out and flutters down into a sad, sparkling heap somewhere between them both. Koushi relates very much to his shawl, suddenly.

“Asahi, go get it,” he instructs. “What’re you all happy about anyway, Daichi?”

“Heh, heh, heh. Wouldn’t you like to know,” says Daichi, the smile returning to his face and making him look a tremendous bit younger. It’s a little reminiscent of… someone. “It’s nothing fancy, just a higher rank. But this might make all the difference. I have just that bit more influence now, and it’s going to help us. A lot. We’ve got a couple more club applicants, and it’s promising.”

Koushi is pleasantly surprised, despite everything. “You’re fast.”

“And I might be able to put in a good word for your friend, if you like, and if he’s still interested in my line of work, of course.”

Asahi stills in his lap, but Koushi continues as if nothing worrying has been said. “Sure. He’s a little indisposed right now, though.”

Disapproving Daichi. “Is _that_ what you were doing?”

“I’m a Keysmith. If I can’t find answers, who can?”

“Someone,” says Daichi, “who isn’t having his vision obscured by the walls of the maze he’s in. It’s right under your nose. It’s about time you figured it out.”

“What?” says Koushi.

Daichi strips off his sweaty shirt and leaves it on the floor beside him. “I’m absolutely beat,” he declares. “I’m going to bed. Sleep soon.” Then his head hits the bedroll and he’s out like a light.

Something clicks into place in Koushi’s mind, and something in his chest twists, and churns. “Hey, Asahi,” he says. “Do you and Daichi wanna go for a play at Mahogany Hall together? I’ve got something on.”

  


It is three weeks before there is a presence on Shimizu and Koushi’s doorstep.

“Please let me join your club,” says Ennoshita.

“How’s the weather down in the Tomb-Colonies?” Koushi asks.

“I’m well-versed in the workings of high Society, although I have even more to learn,” continues Ennoshita. “What I would most like to do is to study under your current leader, but I can offer those skills in the meantime.”

“Was the ticket expensive?” Koushi continues to inquire. “Was it worth it, just to get as far away from London’s prying eyes as possible? Did you finally manage to forget about me?”

“Yes,” says the Efficient Curator.

“Welcome to Karasuno,” says Koushi.

 

 

Present day. There’s a cool draft. Koushi pulls his coat tighter around his shoulders as he makes his way out of their office, and tries not to miss the sun too much. He climbs the steps to a door, tucked away into the end of a hallway. He knocks.

The man who answers would look like he’s just woken up from a long nap, if his hair wasn’t exceptionally neat and if his smile wasn’t exceptionally bright.

“His Lordship’s given me a plus-one,” Koushi says, his own smile small. “It has your name written on it.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds, dear Keysmith.” The Efficient Curator examines the extra invitation with a practiced disinterest. But Koushi knows it’s going into a drawer of other, similarly expensive letters. “I’ll be there.”

“No mushroom bonnets.”

The Curator scoffs. “What do I look like to you?”

Koushi laughs, soft and under his breath. He turns to head back out into the cold. “I’ll see you there,” he offers in lieu of a goodbye, and he steps out again into the streets and lights of London.

**Author's Note:**

> don't forget to check out [a most delicious murder](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6486133)!!! o/ and thank u for reading!


End file.
